Rising from the Ashes
by ScarletteSorceress
Summary: "The Phoenix Must Burn To Emerge" A Marco's past fic. Rated M for Slavery, Abuse, Neglect, Trauma, more warnings inside.


**A/N: Hey everyone~ This is a Marco's past story the ultimate bae and I thought of a little while ago and has been lingering around for me to write for a while. It starts when he was seven years old and slowly goes downhill from there so that's why there's not much revealed in this chapter. This story actually ties in with a lot of my other stories and several people have asked for my full idea on Marco's past so here it is!**

 **Future Warnings: Child Abuse, Slavery, Neglect, Starvation, Torture, Rape, Trauma. Nothing too graphic in this chapter but these topics will still come up later so warning you away now if you can't read those things.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own One Piece.**

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There were screams outside his window as his mother rushed into his bedroom, a panicked look in her eye as she hurried towards her child. Her normally neat blonde hair was a dishevelled mess and ash and soot streaked her cheeks from the fires blazing through the streets. Her seven year old son blinked up at her from where he had hidden himself in his covers.

"Marco, sweetie we have to go." She whispered to him desperately, fearful eyes flicking to the blazing window as violent orange light filled the room and an explosion rocked the ground.

"But what about Papa?" the little child blinked innocent blue eyes at her and the mother's heart ached at the thought of that innocence being taken from him. That's why they had to run, had to run now!

"Papa will meet us again little one now please, we have to go."

Marco seemed to sense something in her frightened voice as he slipped out of bed without any further complaint, clutching his toy seagull close to his chest and taking her outstretched hand as he gazed curiously at the blaze outside his window.

He wasn't scared. His Papa was out there fighting the nasty men right now like he always did when nasty men came. Papa would always win and would always come back home.

But the nasty men had never set fire to their houses before.

The fire spread quickly along the wooden beams, blazing across thatched roofs and lapping at the farmers' crops. The fire was what was frightening Marco. Normally he liked fire; it was gentle, warm and pretty when all the villagers would gather and dance around it, singing praises to the gods and sharing the year's harvest with each other. But this fire scared him. It hurt people and he could hear their screaming as his mother led him through their house, towards the back entrance that led out to Papa's fields and Mama's apple trees.

Mama was scared too, Marco could tell. He could always tell when his parents were scared. So he put on a brave smile, pretended that the fire wasn't going to hurt him and clutched his mother's hand tighter as they hurried towards the woods. All around him he could see other villagers doing the same; Mrs Winny the baker's wife was clutching her little son Alfred to her chest, sobbing as she hurried alongside her sister Minny, seeming desperate to get away from something. Joanna was being dragged along by her mother, face frozen in shock and horror. Marco's friend Johnny was clutching his little brother's hand as he screamed for his parents to come back.

No matter where Marco turned he could see his friends crying faces stare back at him as they watched the flames climb higher into a once clear night and their village was the fuel it used. Familiar buildings crumbled into ash, homes collapsed with no timber to hold them up, hiding places for the dead covered themselves in the terrible orange flames. And they could only watch as dark silhouettes of fighting figures tried their hardest to keep the bandits away from their wives and children.

Even as they watched they could see the dark shadows being cut down like puppets that no longer had any strings. One by one they watched as husbands, brothers and fathers were cut down, crumpling to the floor in sooty heaps.

"Papa's not coming home, is he Mama?" Marco whispered as he clutched tighter to his toy, trying not cry as he gripped his father's last gift to him in stubborn little hands. He knew, deep in his heart, that this was going to be a fight his papa couldn't win. He only hoped the nasty men would leave them alone soon. That they wouldn't hurt Papa more than they already did.

"No my son. He's is not coming home."

Her voice was shaking. Marco looked up to see tears streaking the grime and soot that covered his mother's face. Her hands were shaking too. They bunched up her skirts in tight fists but they still shook. Only her eyes were still; dull blue igniting in the light of the fire and blazing with anger and hatred.

He had never seen his mother's eyes look like that: they were always kind, gentle, laughing at a silly thing Papa had done.

Mama's eyes weren't meant to look so lost.

Marco looked down at his seagull and, ignoring the screams and cries and pleading around him, held it out for his mother to take. He could be brave for now. His Mama needed his Papa more than he did now. All that was left of him was a soft toy he had made for his beautiful baby boy who longed to fly. Well Marco could give up his wings for now if it meant Mama would be happy again; he would always give up his wings for his family.

"Don't cry Mama. Please don't. The nasty men will leave soon, won't they?"

If anything her son's words made her cry harder as she took the treasured toy into her hands and clutched it to her chest. She knew that they would not be getting out of there anytime soon, knew they was a possibility of never seeing their home ever again. All the mothers on the island knew the identity of those awful men and knew there was nothing they could do to keep their beloved children safe any longer.

With that in mind she fell to her knees and wrapped her little boy up in a desperate hug. Shaking hands ran through his soft blond hair before she pressed a tender kiss to his forehead. She knew that his terrified eyes would haunt her until her dying day as she finally pulled back from the hug to cup his face in her hands, desperately trying to remember every detail.

"Little one listen to me. I need you to run. Go deep into the forest with the other children and hide. Don't come out, even if you hear a person approaching. Just run and hide. By the gods I pray you are not captured and are saved from the life they would inflict on you but if that does happen then remember these words well Marco: you are human and you deserve to live."

She took a shaking breath before pushing him away from her, knowing that if she continued to see him she would not ever let him go. But she had to. If there was even a slim chance that her baby would escape the torture of a slave's life then she would take it. Even if it meant never seeing him again.

"Run my little son. Run and never look back."

All around them the other mothers were doing the same thing, the twelve year olds running about and gathering up the smaller children who started to cry as soon as they realised their mother's were not going with them. Johnny came over to them, little brother hanging on one of his arms as he grabbed Marco's shoulder and started to pull him away.

Those wide blue eyes stared back at his mother, unable to believe what was happening. His legs stated to run of their own accord, tiring to keep up with Johnny's hurried strides. But that did not stop him from reaching out to his mother, desperate for her to come with him.

"Wait! Mama please! Mama come with us, we can hide together...MAMA!"

She smiled gently as she watched her crying son be led away, her heart breaking as she stood up from the ground once more and faced towards the flames. She may not be trained in combat but she would give up her life it meant Marco had a few more minutes to escape. All around her the other mothers of the village stood with the same determination and despair she felt as they walked together, back into the flames.

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They had found the children pretty easily. Their crying and sniffling gave their positions away immediately. The eldest child, a boy around thirteen by the looks of it, stepped out of the bushes with a quivering glare on his face. Not that it bothered them; this kid didn't know anything about the world. A glare like that was nothing compared to the smiles of their business partners.

"What do you want from our island?" He demanded, clenching his fists in a cute attempt to be intimidating.

They didn't even bother giving him a reply. Out of the shadows one of the men stepped over to him, bringing his spear down solidly on his head. The boy didn't even have time to grunt in pain as he crumpled to the floor.

"Careful now Plauto; you don't want to damage the merchandise too badly." The leader rasped, taking out a cigarette and lighting it with the same box of matches he had used to burn that pathetic town of matchwood earlier. The bitter taste of the nicotine coated his tongue and he let out a satisfied sigh as the buzz started to kick in.

His men were hurriedly bundling the limp kid up into handcuffs, stuffing a sack over his head in case he woke up any time soon, when another kid stepped out from under the covers of the bushes. This kid was a lot younger, maybe six or seven with an untidy mop of blonde hair that fell into his angry blue eyes.

"Leave Johnny alone." He demanded, not seeming to be scared of the adults that towered over him.

"And why should we do that, brat?" One of his men leered at the young boy, grabbing the tuft of blond hair and twisting it until the child's face screwed up in pain.

"Let go of me." The brat demanded, swinging a fist angrily at his man's face. While a brave action it was an ultimately stupid attempt. All that it rewarded him with was a knee to the stomach.

"Oi, what did I say about harming the merchandise?" he snapped angrily, blowing the smoke into his man's eyes and causing him to splutter and cough, dragging the kid along by the hair as he stumbled out of his boss' reach.

"S-sorry boss." He choked, pulling the kid up a little straighter as several of his other soldiers started cuffing the kids to bring them back to the ships. One of the little girls started sobbing in fear and he snubbed the end of his cigarette against her cheek. The burning ash smouldered angrily against her pale skin, leaving a swollen, blistering welt in its wake.

"You'll get a lot worse than that if you cry where you're going." He said gruffly, not sparing a twinge of pity for the terrified tears or dying eyes. Better these kids learned that now than later where it meant life or death. Their 'business' partners were a lot less tolerant of crying then he was.

"Get these brats into the hold." He ordered, taking out another cigarette and lighting it, casting a cool eye over the blond child that had continued to glare at him through the ash of their burning village.

They marched them through the empty shells of burnt houses, across the smouldering corpses of their fathers, treading dust, flesh and ash into the soles of their feet. And still that kid glared at him through blazing blue eyes, a fire in them that scorched and burned with more ferocity than the fires that razed their village to cinders. Curiously, a twinge of fear ran down his spine as he felt the heat from those eyes on his face, tearing into his soul and scorching the blackened shell until there was nothing left but searing agony.

Instinctively he knew he had made a grave misjudgement with this kid but his employers would have him before he could grow to be a threat. That gave him all the comfort he needed to not feel threatened when he kicked the kid down the creaking steps into the dark, musty hold.

Those kids would need to toughen up if they didn't want to die soon. Though hopefully the kid with the burning eyes would be killed off as soon as possible.

Or the world might have to toughen itself up for when that fury is released.

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"And here is an excellent example of a working young man. Strong arms are excellent for heavy lifting or even tournament for your entertainment. A little roughed up around the edges so I'll knock the price down a little; starting at fifty-thousand beri, any bids?"

A chirpy voice echoed through the dark corridors towards them as malice slinked through the bars of the cages they had been thrown into, clawing at their skin and creeping inside their hearts. This place was scary. It was dark, it stank of the stuff in the tavern that they weren't allowed to drink, and the men were rough and hit them if they cried too much.

One of them had taken Cassie away when she had started crying and had only thrown her back into the cage a few minutes ago, blood and a white sticky goo trailing down her legs. They hadn't managed to get her to make even a squeak after that. Bruises were starting to bloom on her arms too. Seeing what they had done to their friend was enough to shut most of them up.

But not Marco.

He sat by the side of their cage, the cold bars pressing into his cheek as he rubbed the bleeding skin around his wrists gently. The man who had destroyed their home had shackled him personally, making sure the manacles around his wrists and ankles would cut into his skin if he moved too much. The metal stung and itched in the open wounds but the slick blood was making the tight rings less uncomfortable.

He glared at every one of the passing men, daring them to try and drag him out there like they had dragged Susan, Johnny, Maxwell, Hubert and Alice. Daring them to try and sell him like they were selling Richard right now.

"Selling now for four hundred thousand beri...and he is sold! Congratulations on your excellent purchase Ma'am. Our workers will deliver him to the pickup room at your leisure."

Shutting his eyes against the roaring crowd in the auction room he tried to remember that this would all be over soon. Surely this couldn't be within the realms of the law. Surely the marines, the governors, the upholders of justice would come and save them soon. This couldn't be allowed to happen; it wasn't right!

The grinding and scrapping of metal on metal forced his eyes to shoot open, turning his glare on the hulking man that had forced the door to their cage open. The other three children in the cage with him shrunk away from the giant man, pressing themselves desperately against the opposite bars as if the unforgiving steel would shield them from what their friends were going through.

The man didn't reach for any of them though. Instead the rough hand clamped around the chain that led to the collar around _his_ neck and it was Marco who was dragged, gagging and coughing, through the dim hallways and out into the dazzling lights of the auction room and it was now Marco's turn to be sold.

"A young child now, just at that age where you can meld them as you will; a blank canvas as it were. Now this one has quite the attitude which will make him all the more _fun_ to break in. Starting the bidding now at twenty-five thousand beri any takers?"

Marco glared up at the tall, weedy man in the bright clothes, wishing he would just burst into flames like all the good people in his village were forced to. Why had his father had to die for this man to shout and smile as he sold off children to other humans? Why did this have to happen?

Raised voices alerted him to the crowd and he cast his gaze over all of them, determined not to shrink back in terror of these cruel people. The light shone off of crowns, dazzling and piercing and flashing across the warm jewels. Necklaces of rubies, garnets, and amethysts hung heavy around the ladies necks, glittering opals adorned the hands of many of the men. Wealth and power stung his eyes, the oozing sense of self-important cruelty choked his lungs and clamped around his windpipe more painfully than the wrought-iron collar.

He tried to raise his hands to loosen it but his wrists were restrained by the men holding his chains, leaving him tugging desperately but fruitlessly as his arms were not allowed to budge. Wide, blown eyes searched the crowd, desperate for at least one kind face to save him from this pain.

"Eighty-five thousand...Ninety-five thousand...One hundred and fifteen thousand..."

The echoed voices assaulted his ears until his brain screamed at them to leave, to leave him to his pain alone. He didn't want to be on display for these people. He didn't want to be sold. He wanted his mother...

...He wanted his father...

"...P-papa..." he whispered, not wanting for these monsters to see him weak. But there was only so much he could do. He was only seven; he wanted his papa to make everything better again!

"Sold at three hundred and sixty thousand beri and a very fine purchase indeed sir! You can collect your purchase at the pickup point."

Terrified eyes blinked up at the colourful man before frantically scanning the crowd, trying to see which of these people had 'bought' him. All he saw were dark eyes and twisted smirks, laughing at him from their mighty seat above as he was dragged back to the dark halls, chains digging into his flesh and dragging fresh blood against the dusty wooden floor.

And so Marco's new life began, in the ashes of his home and with the screams of his dying village echoing in his ears. But fire burned bright behind his haunted eyes; a fire his masters would try their hardest to put out.

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 **A/N: Hope this satisfies you for now. R &R~**


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